"COME AWAY, COME AWAY,

1623.

DEATH"

From Twelfth Night

COME away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O prepare it!

My part of death, no one so true

Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet,

On my black coffin let there be strown;
Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corpse, where my bones shall
be thrown:

A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O where

Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there!

William Shakespeare.

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HARK, HARK! THE LARK

From Cymbeline

HARK, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs

On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes; With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise;

COME live with me and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
Woods or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,

And see the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair-lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy-buds

With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my Love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my Love.

1599-1600.

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Christopher Marlowe.

II

HER REPLY

IF all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy Love.

My Lady's Tears

But Time drives flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb;

The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward Winter reckoning yields:
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither-soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,-
All those in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy Love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy Love.

1599-1600.

Sir Walter Raleigh.

MY LADY'S TEARS

From John Dowland's Second Book of Songs or Airs

I SAW my Lady weep,

And Sorrow proud to be advanced so

In those fair eyes where all perfections keep.
Her face was full of woe;

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But such a woe (believe me) as wins more hearts Than Mirth can do with her enticing parts.

Sorrow was there made fair,

And Passion wise; Tears a delightful thing;
Silence beyond all speech, a wisdom rare:
She made her sighs to sing,

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And all things with so sweet a sadness move
As made my heart at once both grieve and love. 12

O fairer than aught else

The world can show, leave off in time to grieve! Enough, enough: your joyful look excels:

Tears kill the heart, believe.

O strive not to be excellent in woe,

Which only breeds your beauty's overthrow! 18

1600.

Anonymous.

WEEP YOU NO MORE, SAD

FOUNTAINS

From John Dowland's Third and Last Book of
Songs or Airs

WEEP you no more, sad fountains;
What need you flow so fast?
Look how the snowy mountains
Heaven's sun doth gently waste!
But my sun's heavenly eyes
View not your weeping,
That now lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies

Sleeping.

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